


Love and Maple Syrup

by natascha_ronin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Mush, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Rain Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natascha_ronin/pseuds/natascha_ronin





	Love and Maple Syrup

There’s poetry in breakfast in bed on a rainy May morning in Maine. 

The rain falls on the town, pelting down with wet, cold kisses, bouncing up from the pavement. Brunch-goers run to and from cars parked on Main Street, shaking wet umbrellas as Granny mops puddles from the floor of the diner. The mayor and her son blow on cups of coffee and hot chocolate to warm chilled hands. 

______

The men at the dock, mainly the skeleton crew for the Jolly Roger, tighten ships’ ropes to bulkheads. They look up at the gray sky meeting the choppy sea and wait for lobster boats to make their way in for the day. Their oilskins squeak and boots splash on the wooden wharf.   
______

The young prince toddles to his father, mom making tea in the kitchen while watching with love in her eyes. The kettle whistles and she pours over Earl Grey, watching the rain pour outside the tall windows of the loft. He’ll be heading to work in a moment; his raincoat sits next to him while he tickles the babe in his lap. 

She sighs and smiles. 

She still likes the holster.   
______

The wind and rain lash and the old house creaks, stained-glass windows rattling over the cold fireplace. His first instinct is to light the fire, but he remembers the world he lives in now has hot air flowing through the vents. Still, she’ll be huddled under the blankets upstairs. He hurries with plates and coffee on the tray, pressed to quickly maneuver with hand and hook up the stairs. 

She stirs, stretching, as he places the tray on the quilt. 

“Mmm…breakfast in bed?” Her eyes are barely open and her hair is in her face. She looks outside at the rain. She’s grateful for the late shift at the station today.

He watches her profile twist and stretch, the sheet falling down and catching on her breasts. He could forget the day and the month with the vision she makes: blonde hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, chiseled cheekbones and dark lashes caught in the dim light. Everything she is is lovely and perfect to him. 

“Aye, with real butter and that cinnamon maple syrup you like so much.” He smiles. She loves her sweets.

She reaches forward to pick up her plate and fork, napkin dangling from her fingers. “Thank you; I’m starving.”

“I’ll bet,” he murmurs with a raised eyebrow.

She licks maple syrup from her thumb, and picks up a bite with her fingers. He’s never understood this. She has a fork, but she’s always using her hands like everything is finger food. He usually finds it endearing; right now it’s erotic. 

There’s a bit of syrup caught on her chin, so he reaches forward to kiss it from her, but she turns into him. 

Their kisses are sticky and sweet, tongues swiping over cinnamon and butter from her lips. 

She smiles. “Want a bite?”

He bares his teeth with a devious grin. “Yes.” 

He nips along her neck, his robe falling open as he leans over the plate in her lap. 

She swipes a bit of butter and syrup from her plate and smears it over her nipple. “Missed a spot.” 

His mouth is nimble and his tongue is swift, sucking and licking her. They move quickly, then, her hands pulling his robe open, his legs between hers beneath the quilt. 

They’re a sticky mess, his thumb tangling in her hair and her breast catching on his arm, but they shift together, like everything else they do. She follows his lead, he follows hers, and their eyes never leave one another. 

The rain counts a rhythm for their bodies as it patters against the glass. It shelters them from the world for a few fragile moments, making chaos so that they may make love undeterred.

They’re catching their breath, moving gingerly to hold each other in the afterglow, when they notice the tray perched on the edge of the bed. 

“We never finished breakfast, love.” He smiles and nuzzles her neck with his nose. 

“No, but at least we finished the pancakes this time.” She can’t help but giggle. She reaches back to run her hand over his cheek and her rings catch in the light. She’s never worn rings before, except for the occasional costume jewelry plucked out of a bubble gum machine. The sensation is still new and she finds herself running her thumb over them several times a day. 

He catches her hand and kisses them, running the diamond over his lips. The prisms flash with fire under his gaze, the symbol of perfection and illumination. Like her magic. 

Yes. There is a certain poetry about lying abed with unfinished breakfast and the one you love on a rainy May morning in Maine.


End file.
